I WATCHED the girl in the scarlet taffeta dress and the young man in tails whirl round the Ritz ball-room so fast they looked like a red and black top. I was at a dinner-party, sitting next to Alfred Duff Cooper, who, two weeks before, had resigned from the British Cabinet. Earlier in the evening he had said to me: “It was ‘peace with honour’ that I couldn’t stomach. If he’d come back from Munich saying, ‘peace with terrible, unmitigated, unparalleled dishonour’, perhaps I would have stayed. But peace with honour!”
The girl in the scarlet taffeta dress wasn’t bothering herself about honour or dishonour, and neither were the other couples on the dance floor, from the look of them. Peace was the important thing. Once more the music was playing and Mr. Chamberlain was the hero of the day. Business firms advertised their gratitude in the newspapers; shops displayed Chamberlain dolls and sugar umbrellas; and in Scandinavia there was a movement to present the British leader with a trout stream. Only a few people like Duff Cooper shook sad and sceptical heads over ‘peace in our time’ and stared gloomily into the future. When the girl in the scarlet taffeta dress spun past us, Duff said: “I wonder where that couple will be a year from to-day!”
But sceptical people, like Duff, were soon written off as jitterbugs and praise for Neville Chamberlain continued unabated. It was during this period of adulation—in fact, a few nights after the evening at the Ritz—that I was invited to dinner to meet him.
The dinner was given by his sister-in-law, Lady Chamberlain, widow of the late Sir Austen Chamberlain, former Foreign Minister and half-brother of Neville. I can see the dining-room now with its yellow curtains and its huge bowls of yellow flowers. There were only ten people at the table: the Prime Minister and Mrs. Chamberlain, Lady Birkenhead, Prince and Princess Ruspoli from Rome, the Duke of Alba (Franco’s representative), Lady Chamberlain’s daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. Terence Maxwell, and myself.
The Prime Minister had a more vigorous appearance than his photographs indicated, and I was surprised (as I had been by Hitler) to find that he was an animated conversationalist with a quick sense of humour. I sat several places away from him at dinner, but when we went into the drawing-room Lady Chamberlain told him that I had just returned from Czechoslovakia and led us to a sofa in the corner. I shall never forget Chamberlain’s opening remark: “Tell me,” he said, smiling. “Did you find that the Czechs had any bitter feeling towards the English?”
I was so astonished for a moment I couldn’t reply. Then I described some of the things I had seen and heard and he listened with grave attention. “From what I saw, the Czechs behaved with extraordinary self-control,” I added. “All the stories of Czechs ‘persecuting’ Germans were completely unfounded—manufactured by German propaganda.”
Mr. Chamberlain nodded sympathetically. “I know. No accusation was too wild for them. Even while we were in conference at Godesberg, Ribbentrop kept coming into the room with announcements of Czech atrocities, reading them out in a sensational manner. Of course, it was ridiculous. We knew they were inventions. We had only to check up with our own people in Prague to learn the truth. But that’s the trouble with the Germans. They have no sensibilities. They never realize the impression they are making.”
“What did you think of Ribbentrop?” I asked.
“A terrible fellow.”
“And Hitler?”
“Not very pleasant, either. I thought he had an extraordinary face—almost sinister. And a temper that’s quite unmanageable. Several times at Godesberg he got so excited I was able to carry on a conversation only with extreme difficulty. In fact, several times I had to tell Herr Schmidt (the interpreter) to say that we would get nowhere by such a demonstration, and ask him to keep to the subject. A most difficult fellow. It’s hard to understand the fascination he has for the German people. But I think he’s beginning to lose his power.”
“Hitler?” I said, surprised.
“Yes. When I arrived in Germany I noticed there was a good deal more cheering for Goering than for Hitler. I think Goering may become the real power in the country.”
I told Mr. Chamberlain the lack of boisterousness didn’t strike me as odd; Goering was the Balbo of the country—the popular flesh-and-blood idol who used filthy words and drew good-natured shouts from the crowds of “Good old Hermann”; but Hitler was almost sacred. People didn’t shout as they did for Goering; often they wept.
“Perhaps,” replied Mr. Chamberlain. “But I’m not sure. I don’t think the German people liked being led to the brink of war. I was astonished by the reception I got and already I’ve had hundreds of letters from Germany thanking me for the part I played. When I arrived at Munich, even the S.S. men cheered me! They were the last people I should have expected to welcome peace.”
“I can understand the Germans cheering better than I can the French,” I replied. “After all, the Germans got peace and everything they wanted as well. But in France they got peace only at the price of an appalling surrender. What they found to cheer about I can’t imagine. The French position seems to me the worst of all.”
I made the remark as a deliberate challenge, and was completely taken aback by Chamberlain’s reply. He nodded his head in agreement and said, “Unless the French find some new and vigorous leaders at once, they are finished as a first-class Power.”
He then went on to relate the same story that the Foreign Office official had told me; how the French had communicated with the British Government at the last moment and flatly renounced their pledges. “If we had known this several months before we might have been able to help the Czechs get a far more reasonable settlement,” said Mr. Chamberlain, “but the French assured us, both privately and publicly, that they were determined to honour their treaty obligations—until the eleventh hour. I prophesy that unless the French pull themselves together at once they will not survive as a democracy much longer. If the Czechs are bitter at anyone, they should be bitter at the French.”
“Everyone knows,” I said inelegantly, “that Mr. Bonnet is the biggest crook in Europe.”
Mr. Chamberlain laughed. “He doesn’t inspire much confidence.”
“Do you think Hitler is contemptuous of the French?”
“I don’t know, but I think he suspects them of great weakness.” Then he said suddenly, “What a curious man he is! In judging him, one must revise all one’s ordinary ideas and try to remember what a strange life he has led, for he’s quite different from anyone else. What I found so difficult—apart from his fits of temper and his habit of wandering off the subject—was the fact that he was so irrational. For example, at Godesberg he told me in one breath that the Czech problem was so vital it couldn’t wait a day; and in another breath, suggested my taking a trip to Berchtesgaden in order to see his mountain retreat. I told him if the problem was so vital I didn’t see how he could afford to waste time taking me sight-seeing, but he didn’t seem to think it odd!” Mr. Chamberlain laughed, and added: “Someone reported to me that Hitler was shocked when he was told I enjoyed shooting and remarked that it was a cruel sport. Now, fancy anyone with Hitler’s record objecting to shooting birds!”
Mr. Chamberlain looked amused. Then his smile disappeared and he asked curiously: “What was it like in Prague when you heard the result of Munich?”
I told him about the crowds sweeping down the main square, and the drive through the black and rain-swept villages; and, finally, of the hours we had spent under the supervision of the German with the machine-gun. I told him how we had hung over the radio until three o’clock on the night of the Munich Conference, waiting for the final report, and asked him why it had taken so long.
“German inefficiency,” he replied with a smile. “I had always been led to believe that the Germans were a thoroughly efficient people, but when we arrived at Munich we found that nothing was prepared. There were no interpreters, no stenographers, no pencils, not even any paper. It took hours to get the thing arranged. But the climax came at two-thirty in the morning, when the document was finally ready for signature, and Hitler jumped up from the table, walked over to the desk, plunged his pen in the inkwell to find there wasn’t even any ink! Now even in London we would have had ink!”
At this point the conversation came to a close, for Mrs. Chamberlain came up and told the Prime Minister it was time for him to go to bed. It was the only conversation I ever had with Chamberlain; when I went home I wrote it down as I have given it here.
Chamberlain had surprised me by his outspokenness and impressed me as a man of sincerity. The bitter criticisms levelled at him, depicting him as a villain, and accusing him of totalitarian sympathies, were grossly unfair. He believed in Democracy and the British Empire with the same fervour as Winston Churchill; but what he didn’t believe in with the same fervour as Winston Churchill was the wickedness of Germany.
Although he neither approved of the Nazis nor liked Hitler, there is little doubt that he was deeply impressed by the German people’s desire for peace. The fact that “even the S.S. men” cheered him had left a deep mark. He didn’t seem to grasp the fact that in totalitarian states public opinion is manufactured and fashioned overnight to suit the purpose of the moment. His remark about Hitler’s declining power indicated to me a dangerous lack of understanding.
But on looking back, even more curious were his comments on France. His prophecy has been borne out, but what is difficult to understand is why (and how I wish I had asked this question), if he believed France’s position to be so precarious, he was not more alarmed for the future of her ally, Great Britain.
I think myself the answer was that Chamberlain was so strongly convinced that another war would mean the end of civilization (a phrase you heard repeatedly was: “In war there are no winners’) he couldn’t believe that even Hitler, ‘if treated justly’, would plunge Europe into such a catastrophic maelstrom. He seemed to regard Hitler as a curious, rather unbalanced sort of creature who could be managed by “clever handling”. This led him to underestimate the driving force and ambition he was up against, for he was a man who lacked the human understanding of Churchill; he couldn’t visualize the world as ‘a tired horse’, always flogged ‘a bit further down the road’ by some ambitious new master.
There is no doubt that he sincerely believed the promises Hitler gave him—“I have no more territorial demands in Europe”; and that he meant the words he himself had spoken on September 27th when he said “… if I were convinced that any nation had made up its mind to dominate the world by fear of its force, I should feel that it must be resisted.” The tragedy lay in the fact that he couldn’t be convinced. He will go down in history as a man who was deceived, but whether or not he had a right to be deceived in the face of the overwhelming evidence with which he was confronted, is a matter for argument. At any rate, the mass of people in Europe shared his complacency. Although the British Government ordered an increase of armaments (just in case …) everybody drifted back to normalcy; it was exactly like the cartoon printed in Punch of John Bull settling down comfortably in a chair while “WAR SCARE” flew out of the window with the caption: “Thank God, that’s gone.”
Tom Mitford, Unity’s brother, came back from Germany, where he had spent a day with Hitler, and told me that the latter had referred to Chamberlain as a “dear old man”. Hitler appeared to have taken a liking to him and remarked to Tom that he was upset because “the old man” had to make three such long trips! He said on the second occasion he (Hitler) had planned to go to London instead, and even ordered his plane, but his advisers had told him it was out of the question as the trip would have come under the category of a “state visit”, and meant a three-day stay. “Anyway,” Hitler added, “it’s probably just as well. I know the English. They would have met me at Croydon with a dozen bishops!”
Tom said that although he and Unity had been the only people in the room, when Hitler talked about the Czechs, his voice rose to a shout as though he were addressing an enormous audience. Then his mood changed and he was calm again. “I can’t understand any Englishman being willing to shed his blood for a single Czech. But if England had gone to war with us, of one thing I am certain: not a single British plane would have succeeded in flying over Germany!” (Tom never gathered what he meant by this remark and thought perhaps he was referring to a ‘secret weapon’; if so, it hasn’t been a great success!)
Hitler asked why the English had dug trenches all over Hyde Park, and when Tom replied they were air-raid shelters, he threw back his head and laughed loudly. “So that’s what they were! Here in Germany we couldn’t imagine! We thought the English were under the impression we were going to land troops, and were actually digging front-line trenches.” (I remember remarking to Tom: “What an idea! He must be crazy to think English people are such fools!”)
Tom shared his sister’s conviction that Hitler, in spite of his ambitions on the continent, sincerely desired friendship with England and was eager to reorganize the world on an Anglo-German basis. This was not an uncommon view in London, though on what evidence it was based was difficult to understand. Hitler soon changed his mind about Mr. Chamberlain being “a dear old man,” for scarcely three weeks after Munich the German press began to attack the British increase of armaments and to label the peace-maker of Munich the war-monger of Europe.
When I went to Berlin at Christmas-time (on my way to Russia), I found a cold, unsmiling city almost as belligerent as when I had last seen it in the summer. In August the army had been mobilizing and the avenues resounded to the roar of motor-cycles and the rumble of armoured cars; now the capital was buried beneath a blanket of deep snow and had a silent, almost melancholy air; there was scarcely any traffic on the icy streets and the great building projects dotted all over the capital and left unfinished through a scarcity of labour lay under the snow like giant corpses respectfully covered with sheets.
But the atmosphere was as bellicose as last August. The first person I saw when I arrived was Dr. Karl Silex, whom I ran into in the Adlon Bar. I scarcely had a chance to say hello before he began, “So you’ve come from London. Well, we’ve changed our opinion about Mr. Chamberlain, here in Germany. Instead of making peace he seems to be making arms. If the hypocrisy goes on our patience will come to an end.”
Then with a reasoning of which only Germans (in spite of their reputation for logic) are capable, he went on to prophesy that 1939 would see further changes in the European map. “You can be sure of one thing,” he said defiantly. “Germany’s frontiers are not yet permanently drawn in either Eastern or South-Eastern Europe.”
I wrote this in an article for the Sunday Times, adding that the only change I had noticed in the aggressive spirit of Nazi Germany was in the man in the street. In August the average German had expressed a staunch faith in the leadership of the country and repeated with almost childish faith that the Führer would not lead the nation to war. Now they realized that peace had been kept only by the surrender of Chamberlain. The knowledge that Hitler had been willing to risk a war seemed to have made a deep impression, and on all sides one heard grave doubt as to the future. My waiter in the Adlon told me that the hotel was having a boom, for people felt the future so insecure that they no longer tried to save their money; on another occasion a taxi-driver asked me how long I thought the peace would last, adding with a sigh, “If only the country could have a little quiet.” And when Jimmy Holburn’s wife, Margaret, went into a shop, the sales-girl rattled the box of the Winter Relief Fund and explained in a cynical, rather tired voice: “For guns.”
But this anxiety and weariness meant nothing, for ordinary people didn’t count. The propaganda machine was churning up fresh hatred against the democracies and Nazi party leaders were already well converted. We had an example of the strange mixture of friendliness and hostility towards England running through the capital. Robert Byron had come to Berlin to spend a few days with his sister Lucy, who was married to Euan Butler, the Times correspondent, and on Christmas night we dined together and later in the evening went to a night-club called “Der Goldener Hufeisen” (“The Golden Horse-shoe”).
It was the most extraordinary night-club I have ever been to. The room was packed with people sitting at small tables drinking beer and in the centre of the room was a dance floor, around which was a dirt circus ring with three live ponies, which guests could ride for a mark. The band struck up, the riding-master cracked his whip, and the audience shrieked with delight as brave but inexperienced riders jogged painfully around the circle. The women riders cut the most comical figures, for their hats rolled off and their skirts went up above their knees. One of them had on a pair of bright pink knickers that made the onlookers howl with laughter.
Robert Byron and his sister Lucy were expert riders, and as the evening wore on the temptation grew too strong for them to resist. Robert was wearing a dinner jacket and Lucy a trailing blue satin dress, so their offer to do a turn created a a mild sensation. Lucy rode side-saddle, and when the riding-master cracked his whip and the horses went round the ring at a wild gallop, she made a spectacular picture with her blonde hair shining in the light and her satin dress billowing into the air like a blue cloud. The riding-master was so delighted with the exhibition that he presented both of them with an elaborate diploma. Then the band stood up, raised their beer glasses, and toasted “The English Visitors”; the audience joined in with a burst of whistling and cheering. That is, everybody, except for two Storm Troopers at the next table. They were young men in their twenties, and one of them, with a swarthy complexion and dark, angry eyes, leaned over to Euan and said in an ugly voice: “So you come from England. We don’t like the English. All English people are hypocrites.”
“And we don’t like being interrupted!” retorted Euan.
This had little effect, for the man went on: “We read that your Mr. Chamberlain isn’t so peaceful as he tried to make us think. He’s busy making arms to use against Germany. Well, if he wants it, we will give him his war!”
“You may not like it, when you get it.”
The man laughed derisively. “Oh, the democracies always talk big, but perhaps they won’t talk so big when they come up against the Luftwaffe.”
“Perhaps,” replied Euan. “But I’d rather wait and see than take your word for it.”
Here the younger of the two interrupted heatedly. His cheeks were red and he spoke with passionate intensity. “England must realize Germany is not a country to be trampled on any longer. Your ‘old men’ are not so clever as they think. Our Führer isn’t deceived by your false friendship; he won’t allow Germany’s enemies to escape unpunished. We don’t want a war, but if he tells us to march, we will follow him to the end!”
“Yes,” replied Euan acidly.” And perhaps it will be the end.”
This last remark was lost, for just then four friends joined the Storm Troopers and there was a round of hand-shakings and introductions. But when we left, the dark, swarthy one broke off from his conversation, and in a contemptuous voice flung a ‘Heil Hitler’ after us.
On that same day people in England were opening Christmas cards from Mr. Chamberlain, showing the picture of an aeroplane with the simple inscription: “Munich”. People in Germany were stopping in the streets to look at the New Year’s posters showing the picture of a soldier in a steel helmet with a fixed bayonet. These, too, bore a simple inscription: “1939”.